


The Hunger I Felt

by FereldenTurnip



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Eating Disorders, Historical Depictions of Famine, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, references to cannibalism, references to infanticide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-24
Updated: 2020-09-24
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:08:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26637097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FereldenTurnip/pseuds/FereldenTurnip
Summary: “Where do you put it all, man?!” Nile’s happily laughing. She mischievously swipes his buttered roll of bread. It’s an innocent gesture full of familial warmth, so Joe doesn’t blame her when she misses Nicky's subtle reaction. Nile’s too busy chatting with Andy to notice the dark glint flashing in Nicky’s green eyes or the sudden tense grip on his fork. Beneath the table, Joe settles a calming hand on his knee. Nicky blinks and swallows. He returns to eating, though Joe can tell he feels guilty for his behavior.---Life before Joe was anything but easy for Nicky. Some days, he can still feel hunger clawing his insides.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 77
Kudos: 600





	The Hunger I Felt

**Author's Note:**

> This idea came into being through a discord server chat about the rampant starvation the Crusaders faced in the 11th c. How did Nicky fit in that situation? Let's be real, I whumped him pretty hard in this. Please read the tags!!

**2020 Oklahoma, United States**

  
  


They’re cramped together, all four of them, around a small table at a buffet-style restaurant in the American west. The food is cheap, yet nevertheless wholesome and filling (“Country style!” Nile exclaims with glee). The tea is a touch too sweet for Joe’s tastes, but it’s cold and refreshing given the rising temperatures outside. 

  
  


The past month has been spent extending a helping hand to the numerous reservations out here. A perpetual battle exists between the tribes who’ve rights to the land and various corporate elites that wish to pilfer their natural resources. The least the Guard could do was decommission the bulldozers long enough for the tribal defense attorney to build a strong court case. Tonight they’re celebrating, especially now that the Supreme Court has taken an interest in their plight. 

  
  


It was truly the wild wild west the last time Joe found himself in the area. Between the prairie lands, the trains, and the occasional tornado, not a whole lot has changed since the 19th century. Even the restaurants resemble old saloons, albeit more commercially swallowable. Joe is laughably disappointed when no painted, frilly dancehall girl arrives to refill their drinks.

  
  


Andy’s making a third toast for the evening when Nicky comes back with another full plate (his _third_ , mind). He’s extremely impressed with the chicken fried steak and white, peppery gravy. Joe keeps his plate in the usual spot in the middle. Assured that anything he doesn’t eat, Nicky will consume. _Waste not, want not._

  
  


“Where do you put it all, man?!” Nile’s happily laughing. Nicky smirks around a mouthful and ducks his head over his meal. He’s washing down a mouthful with sickly-sweet tea when Nile mischievously swipes his buttered roll of bread. It’s an innocent gesture full of familial warmth, one that speaks volumes of the kind of suppers she grew up with. 

  
  


So Joe doesn’t blame her when she misses Nicky's subtle reaction. Nile’s too busy chatting with Andy to notice the dark glint flashing in Nicky’s green eyes or the sudden tense grip on his fork. Beneath the table, Joe settles a calming hand on his knee. Nicky blinks and swallows. He returns to eating, though Joe can tell he feels guilty for his behavior. 

  
  


Later that night, they’re alone and making love in their motel room. Joe spreads Nicky out on his back and savours every one of his kisses. His wide hands caress the fleshy padding on his hips, uses them as handles to pull Nicky back onto his length. He thrusts deep, stroking that sweet bundle of nerves inside him every time. Nicky winds Joe’s dangling silver pendant around his fingers. It’s a makeshift leash to tip him closer so that his husband may feast on his lips and tongue. Nicky smiles and softly comes apart. 

  
  


After the haze of euphoria has left them and they’ve washed their skin clean, they settle in each other’s arms for sleep. It’s hot outside. They still opt for opening the window instead of cranking on the old A/C unit. Warm sheets against bare limbs--reminds Joe of summers spent in Malta. 

  
  


He plasters himself against Nicky’s back, heedless of the accumulated sweat, and wraps an arm around his middle. The flat of his hot palm slides down and cups his full stomach. There’s a soft, satisfying pooch collected there from years of good meals and healthy eating. 

  
  


Sleep is singing sweet lullabies in their ears. Nicky sighs, content. His hand seeks out the one resting over his stomach. They fall asleep with their fingers threaded together.

  
  
  
  


**1846 Cork, Ireland**

  
  


“The lumpers he planted didn’t make it,” the widow says dejectedly. Behind her, the rolling green hills are burgeoned with wildflowers. Flecks of yellow, fuchsia, and periwinkle twinkle at the passing of each breeze. It would make for a perfect painting if not for the three fresh graves buried just beyond the lopsided fence. 

  
  


Joseph apologizes to her. Brigid is paper-thin and hollowed out from famine. The shawl covering her red hair has been blown off, yet she’s too exhausted to fix it. Inside her small cottage he hears the wailing of a baby. She only has three children left. Mentally, she’s already fortified herself for another inevitable loss. Emotionally, well… 

  
  


Beside her, Sebastien is struck pale with empathetic grief. He clears his throat in askance and gestures at her door, polite as always. Brigid merely shrugs. Nicholas is already in there tending to the sick as best he can. What’s one more stranger? Sebastien ducks his tall body under the jam and disappears inside. A second later and Joseph catches him pacing with a little babe tucked in the crook of his arm. He’s singing a lullaby in Occitan. 

  
  


“Won’t be long now,” Brigid says to herself. Old tear tracks stain her freckled cheeks. 

  
  


“We can get you to a ship,” Andrea says. “I hear America is accepting refugees.” 

  
  


Brigid doesn’t seem to be listening. Her worn rosary is a prominent feature wrapped around her right hand. “They keep shipping our food over the channel. Why would they do that? Don’t they know we need it more?”

  
  


Andrea and Joseph spare each other a loaded glance. The blight does not discriminate as it sweeps through the countryside. There are countless empty villages with endless fallow fields in between. Brigid is unfortunately one of many. 

  
  


Andrea’s throat bobs and she walks away, back towards their horses. She doesn’t say goodbye but her stride has an air of finality to it. Joseph knows she’s thinking of Bengal again. Only this time, instead of fighting a monolithic trade monopoly, they’re up against an arrogant crown. Parliament will dither while millions in their unwilling colonies suffer.

  
  


_“Same story, different century,” Andrea mutters._

  
  


Just then Nicholas emerges from the cottage. He’s wiping his hands on a rag, unable to look up from his feet. He stops before Brigid and shakes his head.

  
  


“I did all I could,” he says gently. “I left some medicine on the table, for the cough.” 

  
  


Brigid nods like she expected the answer. She covers Nicholas’ hand, the one still holding the rosary. “Thank you,” she says and the shroud of apathy from earlier lifts long enough for heartfelt gratitude to escape. The two take a moment to bow their heads over the rosary and pray.

  
  


Feeling like an intruder, Joseph nods his goodbye and ambles down the dirt road. He’s intent on joining Andrea. The air is sweet with birdsong but Joseph’s heart is lined with lead. Footsteps fall in line next to his own. He looks up, expecting to find Nicholas, but he’s surprised to see Sebastien instead. He’s on the precipice of crying, reaching inside his jacket for what Joseph knows is a silver flask of bourbon. Sebastien takes a long swig then offers it to his brother. Joseph is tempted, yet he abstains. 

  
  


He halts and searches for Nicholas. He finds his love lagging behind in a private chat with Brigid. Theirs is a fervent conversation and Joseph can see Brigid shake her head. Nicholas pushes something into her arms and refuses to take it back. Brigid is openly sobbing now. She’s clutching Nicholas’ pack--the one filled with all his rations--and mouthing something that vaguely looks like ‘ _Bless you!_ ’ at his back. 

  
  


Nicholas hurries to catch up with his family. As he returns to Joseph’s side, his gaze is haunted and distant. Joseph knows he’s lost him to the past. He doesn’t hesitate to take one of his shaking, sweating hands into his own. He shushes the phantom pains away. 

  
  
  
  


**1352 Thuringia, Holy Roman Empire**

  
  


A little mountain hamlet accepts them into their fold after successfully saving them from a group of desperate bandits. The chastised thieves are scattered to the wind, never to return. Andromache clearly wants to continue the hunt, to suss their enemy out and raze them at their very root. Quýnh disagrees entirely. She very purposely commandeers the horses’ reins, challenging their fearless leader with a daring look. 

  
  


Josef is quite happy to rest and recuperate after the hard ride. Trampling through the dense forests for hours on end left them and their horses spent. Worst of all, the wildlife up and disappeared without so much as a paw print or tuft of hair to track. Necessity pushed them into ignoring their hunger. By the time the mission concluded, Nico’s hands started to shake and shiver. So when a villager by the name of Lukas invites them to dinner, the team can't recall a good reason to refuse. 

  
  


At only age forty, Lukas is the only surviving man old enough to go by the title of Elder. “There was another, God rest his soul,” Lukas explains. “But the plague took him. Him, his wife, and the children...” He stops to gaze at the blue mountains rising along the northern horizon. His chin wobbles. 

  
  


“You have saved us from the bandits and we _are_ grateful for this deed. Alas, I worry what more lies in store for us. The dead are lucky,” Lukas says, voice weary and watery. “They will sleep soundly while the living must suffer on.”

They spend the next hour or so milling about the hamlet. The plague has swept through and left a chilling ghost town within its wake. Josef and Nico pass a small church at the outskirts of the hamlet. There is no priest to greet them, he has passed away like the rest of his flock. The soil in the attached graveyard is freshly turned.

  
  


With too many folk dead, the tasks of maintenance and upkeep have lagged. Josef and Nico lend their hands mending empty animal pens and shuttering vacant cottages. They’re chopping firewood with Andromache while Quýnh helps Agnes, Lukas’ daughter, hang laundry behind their ancestral home. 

  
  


“Not much left of us, I’m afraid,” Agnes mourns. “Some of the others tried running away to the city.”

  
  


“Maybe they reasoned it would be safer,” Quýnh offers, words stilted around the Frankish dialect. Josef knows she doesn’t believe it, that she’s just trying to be polite. This disease is sweeping around the world like wildfire. It is inescapable. Josef catches Nico frowning and he wants nothing more than to reach out and comfort him. 

  
  


Anges scoffs, “They _abandoned_ us, more like.” It’s an unusually visceral reaction. The conversation diffuses away into awkward silence. 

  
  


At supper, they gather in the public dining hall. The tallow candles are lit in silver candelabras, heirlooms polished to a dazzling shine. Lukas and his family are all in attendance--his wife and three daughters, his little grandchildren, and a scant handful of cousins. The majority of survivors in this far-flung remote hamlet. Despite tragedy, they assume a cheery disposition and dress in their finest clothes. This is a special occasion. Trussed up in just his riding habit, Josef feels embarrassed and incongruously seated at the long oak table. 

Agnes and the other women lay out a veritable feast, or what could be called a feast given the grave circumstances. A large spiral ham takes centre place on the table. It’s a piece of art trussed up in herbs and sliced apples. Little islands of dishes expand down the table, obviously other pork recipes to compliment the main course. For Josef in particular, he is given a bowl of hearty rabbit stew and the promise of more if he wishes. He greatly appreciates the last-minute accommodation. 

  
  


Nico is famished beside him. Ansty as he is throughout Luka’s toast, he’s the first to dive into their meal. Andromache smirks and shakes her head. She’s more interested in the cellar wine Lukas dusted off for them to share.

  
  


Before the rest of them can take a bite, there’s retching to his right. The sound is jarring and loud. It’s Nico. He throws his chair back and falls to his knees.

  
  


The party clamors to a stop. Josef drops his spoon and hastens to Nico’s side. Has he been poisoned? He struggles to hold Nico’s heaving shoulders, tries in vain to straighten him upright. He switches to their private language, a bastardization of Arabic and Ligurdian. “ _Nicoló, what is wrong, are you choking?? My love, please tell me!_ ” 

  
  


Nico can’t be choking because he’s spitting his food out with each laboured breath. His fingers wriggle into his mouth in an effort to scoop food debris off his tongue. He is drooling, delirious, and muttering maniacally. Josef leans closer to listen.

  
  


“Don’t eat! Don’t eat it!” It’s a deranged litany. 

  
  


Then a much quieter, “Don’t eat _them!_ ” 

  
  


Josef freezes. His blood curdles in his veins.

  
  


He sweeps a critical eye over the feast, the stuffed pork and rabbit stew. Unbidden, he recalls the barren pens outside dusted with cobwebs. Again, the lifeless forests where they scoured for game. How Agnes went red-hot with anger at the audacity of folks evacuating… For taking away their food.

  
  


“It’s,” Joseph gags. He feels himself pale. “It’s not animal flesh.” 

  
  


Quýnh hovers worriedly over the two of them. Like an arrow, her dark eyes shoot up to Lukas where he sits at the head of the table. She’s hoping, _begging_ , that this is all a mistake. The patriarch is grim and nonplussed. “The living must survive,” he states calmly. 

  
  


Quýnh gasps and turns an alarming shade of green. Andromache withdraws a dagger hidden from her beneath her leather jerkin. She waves it threateningly at the family. A whirlwind of activity sweeps around the dining hall. Josef doesn’t care. He’s concerned for his moon. 

  
  


Nico’s green eyes are wide and unseeing. He balls his fists over his wet mouth and gurgles for air. He gasps as if he’s drowning. The claws of some distant, unshakable memory have sunken deep into his mind. Josef’s heart is rendering in two, but he’s tender as he gathers Nico into his arms. He pets his long brown hair and rocks them until the staccato wheezing is replaced with wet sobbing. 

  
  
  
  


**1099 South of Habra, in the Holy Lands**

  
  


Summer is waning and yet the sun adamantly refuses to recognize the shift in seasons. The heat beats down on their heads and shoulders, blisters healing at the blink of an eye. They’ve long-since been baked into abandoning their armour in the dry dirt and heath. 

  
  


Yusuf is miserable for far more reasons than the climate. Many have to do with the enemy trudging at his heels. Even though they have ceased killing each other (and they have dedicated _weeks_ to the act), Yusuf is loath to call this man his companion. 

  
  


Nicoló di Genova is prone to sulking. He hasn’t spoken much beyond stilted insults in Ligurdian, Greek, and Sabir. He glares at the back of Yusuf’s head, his arms wrapped firmly around his middle. Like he’s hiding an injury. Except they can’t be injured, not even bruises stick to their skin. Yusuf has certainly _tried_.

  
  


The green tunic Nicoló wears hangs off him like a sheet, tattered and stained with sweat and blood. His hair is dark with grease and falls lanky in his bearded face. If he weren’t so shabby, so _asinine_ , Yusuf might actually grow to like him. Those green eyes of his are enough to make him handsome. 

  
  


Or maybe the sun and lack of food has permanently addled his brain... 

  
  


Suddenly, he hears the sound of running water. Or is it a mirage? He glances at Nicoló--he’s heard it too. A burst of energy quickens their steps. They crest a small hill and find a healthy stream at the bottom. Yusuf shouts a prayer to merciful Allah, heedless of the scowling Christian beside him. 

  
  


He’s already half-way undressed when he reaches the shore’s edge. Naked as the day he was born, Yusuf dives into the creek. It’s shallow, but the water is an exquisite balm after days of sweltering heat. He gulps mouthfuls of water and it’s refreshing on his sandy tongue. His stomach twinges in protest when he’s drunk too much. Yusuf is grinning by the time he surfaces and shakes his hair out.

Nicoló is exactly where he’s left him, jaw ticking. He stands with his shoulders up to his ears, staring at the water hungrily. He doesn’t move to join him. 

  
  


Yusuf shouts, “Come on!” He splashes a handful of water at the Frank (but he’s not a Frank, is he?). “ _The water is safe_ ,” he says in Ligurdian. 

  
  


He’s uncertain why Nicoló hesitates. How can he bear the itch of filth on his skin? Or is the Christian merely prudish? Bored, Yusuf waves dismissively at him and starts to bathe. As soon as his back is turned, he hears the tell-tale fall of clothes, belts, and boots. He lets himself smirk.

  
  


He veers around, a mean quip on the tip of his tongue. He gets one good look at Nicoló and his words dissolve into ash in his mouth. 

  
  


Underneath the gambeson and grime Nicoló-The-Not-Frank is a _skeleton_ . His body is slim and gaunt, clearly malnourished for some time now. He’s _horrified_ he can count each of Nicoló’s ribs. How did he ever muster the strength to pull a sword and kill Yusuf?

  
  


Nicoló catches him staring and he tenses in fear. He cowers away, but the reverse side fairs no better to witness. The knobs of his spine form a morbid dotted line from neck to tailbone. His pale, broad back is littered with freckles and moles. Yusuf tries unsuccessfully to focus on those instead.

  
  


They finish washing in silence. 

  
  


Soon enough the sun sets. Even though it’s still warm out, they scrape together enough wood to start a fire. Their clothes are drying over the bushes surrounding their makeshift campsite. The old turban Yusuf had previously wrapped around his helmet is now draped modestly over his lap. Opposite the fire, Nicoló hides his body in his cloak. He’s laying on his back and watching the stars twinkle overhead. 

  
  


“You came from Antioch, did you not?” Yusuf says in Sabir, the only language they’re mutually capable of understanding. Honestly, he’s surprised to find himself saying anything at all. His enemy is as soundless as a ghost. 

  
  


Yusuf stammers, trying to fill the uncomfortable silence. “I heard rumors, you know.”

  
  


…Nothing. Not a peep. 

  
  


“They said the Franks grew so hungry, so desperate for food, that they turned on each other and…” He can’t continue. The thought sickens him. He’s shaking his head when he notices Nicoló intensely watching him.

  
  


His green eyes, made brighter by the dark bruising around the lids, are hollow and haunted in the campfire. There’s guilt roiling there--and _shame_ \--before he shutters it all under lock and key. Nicoló rolls away from him and the moment is broken. 

  
  


Yusuf swallows against the bile suddenly roiling in his stomach. He furiously rubs at his forearms. Underneath the crackle of logs, Yusuf thinks he hears a sob. Sure enough, Nicoló is hugging his stomach again. His shoulders twitch with his soft, hiccupping cries. Yusuf sinks his head into his hands.

  
  


Despite all his rage, all his disgust, he can’t help but feel a stab of pity for the Christian. It cuts deeper than a longsword to the stomach ever could. For a solitary moment, Yusuf opens up his well of sorrow and tucks a small piece of Nicoló’s pain alongside his own regrets.

  
  
  
  


**1077 Genoa, in what will eventually become Italy.**

  
  


Nicoló is a scraggly little boy with a messy mop of brown hair and owlish green eyes that see too much. The abbot woke up one morning and found him shivering on their stoop, barely five years old. He has no family name. They simply call him _di Genova_. 

  
  


Compared to the other orphans at the monastery, he is much too small for his age. The threadbare sleeves of his second-hand tunic are thrice rolled over to free his bony wrists. Nothing can be done about the neckline perpetually hanging off one sharp shoulder. Bare tippy toes struggle to peek over the shoulders of his similarly desolate peers. As the runt, he invites all sorts of teasing and bullying. They must maintain a pecking order, after all. 

  
  


Unlike the wildling others, Nicoló is still and prone to long stretches of silence. The Benedictine monks solemnly bow their heads together and frown at the little boy. They would think him mute if it were not for the singing they occasionally hear. Alone at the lit altars, Nicoló croons with such a sweet, angelic voice. It’s a shame he clamours up as soon as he hears footsteps. 

  
  


The monks are kind, but strict. Their lives are ones of quiet contemplation. They don’t have the same deep coffers as the surrounding parish churches do. A monastery is a place of charitable work, closed off to the outside world for the most part. Sometimes they receive donations from the faithful--food, clothes, supplies. Otherwise, they’re an independent and lonely island. 

  
  


Their meals are simple and plain. They break their fast on porridge of oats and goat’s milk. Lunch is a simple affair of cheese and bread. Dinner is a vegetable stew, or a single cut of fish if they’re lucky. The other boys make it a joke to steal Nicoló’s food often. He’d steal from the pantry but the cook caught him last time. Nicoló received a wicked lashing before being sent to bed without dinner. His days are long and he spends his chores perpetually weak and exhausted.

  
  


Sometimes he’s sent to work in the healing wing. He dutifully carries rags and washing bowls as his elders tend to the sick and wounded. The monks prefer him to the other boys, as he does not shy away from pus and blood so easily. It’s methodical and Nicoló is surprised to learn a thing or two. 

  
  


He hates laundry day the most. His arms ache and shudder with every bucket of water he lugs from the well. From there he must clumsily mount a rickety footstool and wrest the bucket over the washing basin. The cold water barely takes away the sting from the lye soap. His skin turns pruney and pink as he scours linen clean for hours and hours.

  
  


Yet it’s not _all_ so terrible. 

  
  


Nicoló is particularly fond of the library. The smell of parchment, ink, and books is synonymous with safety and peace. There is one monk in particular, Leo, who delights in showing Nicoló how to mix paint and cut goose feathers into tiny brushes. They get lost pouring over ecclesiastical volumes older than the both of them combined. His green gaze widens in wonder at all the colourfully illuminated pages. 

  
  


Sometimes, Leo rolls out a map of some distant land. His ink-stained finger points out to the Holy Lands where all of humankind walked out from. Tears prick at his eyes and Nicoló must turn his head away lest he stain the vellum. As he wipes his face, he desperately wishes to God that He might change Nicoló into a bird so he can fly far, far away. 

  
  


At night little Nicoló curls up on his straw-stuffed cot, a sheet pulled up to his chin. He stares ahead in the dark, eyes round and luminous. He’s listening to the other boys whimper through their nightmares. Sleep refuses to visit him, as it often does. His tummy gurgles, angry and empty. He hunches over his knobby knees, his small hands clenching through the pain. 

  
  


It’s a familiar diatribe of hunger. If he shuts his eyes and thinks hard enough, he can sometimes recall his mother’s face. Her hair was long and brown, like his. He’s fairly certain they share the same smile, the same eyes. She reminds him of sunlight and a happy life. 

  
  


Try as he might, he can’t remember a time when he wasn’t hungry. 

  
  


.


End file.
